


The Adventure of the Too-tight Trousers

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alley Sex, Gloves, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Leather, M/M, Wrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt by panthalassa3d: "How about just going with Moriarty and Moran and the “sex in a semi-public place/some place with possibility of discovery” idea? I’m sure Moran has his “sorry sir, but I just can’t wait” moments"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Too-tight Trousers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CassandraTheRed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandraTheRed/gifts).



   “Well I thought that went rather well, don’t you?” Moriarty says, striding along, head held high, full of smug satisfaction at concluding a successful (but not entirely legal) business transaction. When he gets no response though he halts and shoots an interrogating look at his companion. “Moran?”

    “Mm, great,” Moran says, without very much enthusiasm, slinking along behind him.

    Moriarty sighs. “Whatever is the matter with you? You have been fidgeting non-stop for the past half an hour.”

    Moran glares at him for a moment. He tries to resist the urge to blurt out the source of his anguish but doesn’t succeed. “It’s these bloody trousers!” he cries. “I said they were too bloody tight and…”

    “And what?”

    Moran turns away, his cheeks flushing crimson.

    “And what, Sebastian?” Moriarty presses, moving closer towards him, nudging him back against the alley wall.

    Moran swallows. “They rub, sir.”

    “Ah.” Moriarty glances down. “Yes, I think I can see your problem, and… _feel_ it.” He skates his leather-gloved hand over the front of Moran’s trousers, lightly palming him through the fabric, feeling the hardness there.

    “ _Professor_ ,” Moran pants, his eyes slipping half-closed. He has endured such unbearable friction against his intimate parts for too long now, sufficient to put him in a state of arousal but insufficient to give him any relief, and Moriarty is only making it worse.

   “Well, perhaps when we get home we might see what we can do about it.” Moriarty abruptly withdraws his hand and turns away, and Moran is left to stare at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

    “Sir?”

    “What?”

    “I can’t wait that long!” Moran’s voice is shaky with arousal and distress.

    “Of course you can.” Moriarty moves closer to him and grips him by the throat, hard enough to act as a reminder of his dominance over him, applying enough pressure to make Moran remember that he _could_ hurt him, but lightly enough not to actually do so. “Or do you expect me to believe a man of your strength and endurance is so thoroughly incapable of holding on for a few more minutes, hmm?” His breath hums in Moran’s ear, his face so close against Moran’s now, and it is deliberately calculated to stimulate him further, of course it is. “Would you have me believe that you are so weak-willed that you cannot suffer a little more discomfort, well, Sebastian?” His hand is pressed to Moran’s face now, his thumb stroking over the cheekbone, fingers cupping his jaw, and Moran is forced to deal with this additional sensory input, the smooth soft touch of Moriarty’s gloved fingers; the scent of the leather and of the hint of cologne dabbed against the professor’s wrist and simply the sight of that little piece of bare skin between glove and cuff which is so powerfully erotic to Moran, knowing as he is that he is the only one permitted to touch Moriarty there; to kiss it, even.

    “No sir. I just… _please_.” Tormented with desire and longing, he puts his lips to Moriarty’s wrist now and does kiss it, an act of reverence and longing. “Please, sir.”

    “Please, what?” Moriarty asks, his voice soft but so imperious. “What do you want me to allow you to do, pet?”

    “Please, sir, I need… I want you to…”

    “Well?” Moriarty uses his other hand to grip the short hair at the back of Moran’s neck, pulling his head up and back. “Look me in the eyes and tell me what you want, or you shall get nothing.”

    Moran stares at him, a mixture of lust, faint resentment and love showing in the look in his eyes, which seem very dark with arousal now. “Please sir, I want you to let me come.”

    Moriarty’s mouth quirks into a strange half-smile. He has assessed this situation – they are in public, yes, but in a deserted back alley, presently lacking even in rats (although doubtless there are some close by); it is late; it is dark and in this district which primarily consists of warehouses there are unlikely to be many people passing through. Of course there is a risk, there is a risk in most things that Moriarty likes to do, but it seems to be an acceptable one. He releases his grasp on Moran’s hair. “Very well.” He drops his hand to Moran’s trousers again, but not to palm him now, to unbutton the fly and to slide his gloved hand inside; to work Moran’s hot, hard length free of his constraining clothes, which causes Moran to let out his breath in a shaky gasp.

    Supporting Moran with his other hand (and observing how Moran’s eyes close completely; how his face and neck flushes, that blush seeming to move down beneath his collar; how his mouth opens slightly as he pants), Moriarty begins to roughly stroke Moran’s prick.

    “Professor,” Moran says, his voice sounding husky and strange. “Professor.” As if he can remember no other words, lost in the sensations of those gloved fingers pumping him and then… Moriarty’s mouth on his, their lips and tongues meeting for a few precious moments. “Professor, please… please, I need-” And then Moriarty’s free hand is pressed over his mouth, the warm leather against Moran’s lips, the scent of it and of the professor’s skin filling his nostrils. It’s too much, it’s all too much, but perhaps it’s also not enough; he’s still not _quite_ there. The heat, the tension, in his groin is exquisitely unbearable; he’s so close and yet… and yet…

     He groans open-mouthed against Moriarty’s palm, his breath dampening the leather; tasting it as well as smelling it now.

    “That’s it, Sebastian,” Moriarty says low into his ear again, still stroking him and this, _this_ is enough, the professor thinks. “That’s it, my pet, my pigeon, my sweet obedient dove, come for me now my boy.”

    Moran’s cry when he spends is strangled, and not only by Moriarty’s hand clamped over his mouth; because that desperately yearned for release of tension takes all his breath away. His legs very nearly buckle under him too as his release spurts onto the cobbles beneath their feet, Moriarty directing it away from them as carefully as he can.

    “It’s all right, it’s all right, my sweet Sebastian, I’ve got you.” Moriarty holds him, supporting him against the wall. “I’ve got you, my boy, shhh.”

    Even when Moriarty removes his hand from Moran’s mouth at last, Moran can only make a sort of half-panting, half-sobbing sound for several seconds, so Moriarty pulls him close and just holds him for a while, until his breathing evens out.

    “James,” he says finally, nuzzling against Moriarty’s neck. “James.”

    Moriarty strokes his back now with one hand and uses the other to carefully tuck Moran’s softening length back into his clothing.

    Still a bit giddy from his orgasm, Moran brushes his cheek to the professor’s before his mouth meets Moriarty’s again in a tender kiss.

    “Professor,” he says when he pulls back, and he smiles. He’s regaining his composure rapidly, so that a minute or two from now should anyone happen to witness the pair walk out of this gloomy alleyway, they will be none the wiser about what they have just got up to and only the two of them will ever know about this tryst, these moments out of sight and out of time, almost.

    “Come on then.” Moriarty straightens up and reaches to adjust Moran’s hat. “It’s time we were getting home, that is, if you think that you can survive the journey without your trousers creating further problems.” He lifts an eyebrow at Moran.

    Moran snorts. “I reckon so, yes sir.”

    “Very good.” Moriarty strolls to the end of the alley and gives a glance about, checking for any observers. “Perhaps,” he says, catching Moran by the arm as the colonel saunters after him, although even though there seems to be nobody else around still he lowers his voice before continuing. “Once we arrive home, you might return the favour?” Moriarty’s arousal may frequently be more cerebral than visceral but he certainly still enjoys achieving physical release sometimes. He is in no mood to copulate in the street like a dog however. He will much prefer to indulge in such acts in front of a warm fire, on a comfortable rug, or amidst clean sheets and soft pillows. Besides, he is sure that by the time they get home Moran will be sufficiently recovered from this little endeavour to want to play another game with him, one which will be all the more enjoyable if they take their time over it.

    The colonel now grins wickedly in response to this suggestion, understanding that Moriarty has more in mind than just Moran taking him in his hand. “Yes sir.”

   They walk side by side, back to where the cabby they have contracted to work for them waits. “And Moran,” Moriarty says as they near the cab.

    “Yes sir?”

    “When we get home, be sure to dispose of those trousers.”

    Moran laughs. “Of course, Professor.”


End file.
